


Circumstantial Simultaneity

by Aondeug



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Light Bondage, Mind Control, Slavery, Tentabulges, Weird spacetime shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aondeug/pseuds/Aondeug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Throughout the reaches of Paradox Space there are series of auspiciously linked moments that push reality on. Though they do not occur at once they are simultaneous be they the killing of some. Or even private moments between couples. So linked are nights between Porrim, Aranea, and their Alternian selves though they likely shall never see it as such. A Porrim<3Aranea and Dolorosa<3Mindfang fic that takes a look at submission and what forms it can take, both healthy and unhealthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circumstantial Simultaneity

**Author's Note:**

> Circumstantial simultaneity is not a concept I hold any faith in your understanding; it is, after all, beyond the scope of mere time and space as known by your mortal minds. Alas, I will attempt to speak on your level though I know you will not grasp it save in the most basic sense. Circumstantial simultaneity refers not to a mere temporal state of concurrent actions, but something beyond such paltry phenomena. It works weaving the webs of fate together, creating auspiciously linked pairs of events and, in doing so, writes the fabric of interdependent reality as the complex tapestry that I have the presence of mind to comprehend, and you the privilege of having even a tad of its majesty described. Perhaps an example shall serve you better, though I know in advance it won't. I will take the time to present one regardless as one has just so happened to conveniently arrive via fax. The little joys of life are what the omniscient live for.
> 
> \- Doc Scratch

It is a Thursday evening, so she would know if she had continued to keep track of the days. Alas, Aranea has not and sees little reason to attempt to do so. It's not at all important. What is important, however, is the woman standing before her. Porrim has a hand placed upon her hip as she looks at Aranea, warm smile on her lips. She means to comfort her, to ease them both into this situation. Because while Aranea can feel the trepidation emanating forth from Porrim it is she who is the more awkward. Never before had she been told to let loose. That her desires, twisted and horrid as they were, could be indulged and safely at that, with all the ties of consent and caution. So even as Porrim says, “Come now, Ary, we haven't come this far for you to get cold feet have we? Oh, I had the evening all planned out and everything...” Aranea cannot but feel hesitant.

 

For all her life she has been presented with a singular idea, a purpose. Her life was owed to those beneath her and, while her psionic abilities could prove useful in their watch and care, that was but the one use for those powers. Anything else was a selfish indulgence, and while she did at times toy with them she had never dared to use them so brazenly for her personal delight. One does not so simply throw away sweeps of conditioning and so it is only with difficulty that Aranea responds, “Well no, of course not. I have been awaiting this night and have been spending a deal of time in pondering out the possibilities; where I can bend and stretch, how much is too far, and so on. As well as how to manage all this, as while it's quite the interesting thing, it's also just a bit overwhelming with how open to variety it is. I dare to say that the possibilities are potentially infinite or, more properly, would be assuming we were free of physical limitations.”

 

“Was that speech part of your ruminations, dear?” Porrim asks jokingly, her tone light and breezy. She is free from the worry that seats itself in her heart for the time. For all Porrim's exploration a few areas had not been tread and this remained one of those few.

 

It was an issue of trust Aranea surmised from various talks and small looks into her mind. Yet Porrim trusted her enough to stretch beyond her well traveled borders, to find a freedom in the lack of such. The thoughts and feelings were strange and new to Aranea. No one else presented such views on the topic in their party. That steels her on and a smile comes to her face. She has a go ahead and its intoxicating, entrancing. “Not it was not, however, I have better things to attend to than the veracity of such a guess,” she says while trying to beat down the waves of elation. Her mind must be tempered for this. It won't work otherwise.

 

“Oh? What could these better things of yours be? I'd love for you to enlighten me, darling,” Porrim says while giving Aranea that lustful state she so often sent her way.

 

She adores and treasures that look as she does the feelings of anticipation that pour forth, spilling into her mind. Every inch of Porrim desires this, though she instinctively recoils a tad at the same time. A small passion begins to bud at that thought, though Aranea quiets it. She cannot go out too quickly. This must savored and so she heads to the table in which she has stored the tools. So illicit they were that she couldn't bear to carry them in her sylladex; besides there was a sort of intimacy in such drawn out methods. She says, “Yes, I can in fact take the time do so and, what's more, I shall. Quite thoroughly.” Her fingers come in contact with the irons and though they were not designed for the purpose a part of Aranea jumps in disgust at the concept of slavery. It's a pleasing feeling in a way though and she takes them into her hands. A blindfold she grabs as well, tucking it carefully in a pocket. These simple instruments in hand she turns to Porrim who is still smiling, still awaiting what Aranea intends to do. Her mind protests and Aranea blurts out, “You are absolutely certain you want to? I mean we could do something else. Many things really. We could examine your designs or something else...”

 

Porrim laughs and Aranea can almost taste the feeling of surety and trust that runs through her. It's comforting. “I'm sure, Ary. I'm more sure than I thought I could be.”

 

Aranea purses her lips and takes that in, letting the feeling settle. Till finally she looks up and says, “Very well. Arms out, Porrim.”

 

She listens so obediently to those words, though she recoils at them. Her arms are held up, openly, and that woman, her owner strides forth. A hand is placed upon one of her wrists, fingers lightly gliding against the bare flesh. “You truly do have such lovely wrists, my dear. That is why I had presented you the mercy of being free of your irons; we cannot mar such beauty can we? No! that would be barbarous,” her master says as she steps forward yet again, leaning in. Her face brushes against her's and the slave remains stock still and silent. She wants to run and hide, saving herself from the destruction of her very self. Yet she yearns to feel that touch and to be permitted to respond to it. She hates herself for pitying this horrid woman and all the more for feeling a touch of joy as she feels the warm breath of her against her ear. “We cannot scar such a work of natural art as you, but I daresay we can bruise it some. Don't you agree?” she hears as the touch of cold metal hits her wrists. Her body aches to run, yet to stand still as well. Even worse still she cannot say which is her personal volition. She refuses to answer, uncertain and unable to state who it is that wills her quiet. The clank of irons locking rings out and her heart falls at the sound. She is now trapped, that harsh sound solidifying her helplessness. Again her mistress asks, “Don't you agree with my assessment?”

 

The slave draws in a breath, a hesitant hiss of one, before saying, “Of course, Mistress.” Her owner pulls back and as she does she laughs heartily. That sound pains her for it is she who is laughed at. Yet she burns to hear nothing but such sounds. She would be useful then, her owner happy and pleased. As she should be. She watches as the Marquise places both hands upon her hips and examines her. Her eyes travel from her own down her form, slowly and intently. Her owner cherishes the time she is given to admire the slave. At least that is what she is left to assume of the woman. The Marquise draws in a satisfied breath as she relishes in her position of power. Her slave's legs feel numb and weak. She cannot stand this any longer and her will to stand goes with it. She is forced to fall to the floor, knees stinging with pain as they met the hard wood of the deck.

 

“God, look at you. Have you no will at all, girl?” her master asks facetiously with a scowl. The slave does not look up and merely takes joy in that small bit of certainty she feels. It was not her act. She knows it and she clings to that. Reality is her own, even if but for a moment. “Of course you don't. How can you when you outright beg for me to simply arrest you and your soul?” the Marquise rambles off, more to herself than anyone else. The slave shuts her eyes and looks inside, every last feeling and thought that comes to mind being examined. Which are her own and which does that hag place in her, she wonders. Is that feeling, that desire to speak in agreement her own or a suggestion from outside? Or worse is it what she is being remade as? Her vision blurs as the world slips away from her, taking all surety with it. She cannot find reality and truth, and she is adrift in a sea of derealization. Her eyes open and she looks to the floor boards in horror. They are real yet they do not feel as such. Sensation is so light and airy, and the thought that all is but a fiction nags at her. Does her owner wish her to feel this? She looks up to the woman, eyes full of fear and questioning. It was not her right to move without order, yet she does regardless. She has comfort nowhere else.

 

The Marquise grins widely and it brings her none of the comfort she sought from her. Her master joys in watching her squirm in mental torment just as much as she does in bending her directly, sharply. “Goodness, just look at you, so nervous you can barely keep track of the floor...I'll offer you a kindness as I'd rather not have to deal with a mess. Stand, girl. Go ahead.” Though she says those words she still cannot be certain. Yes, having to abandon a night's fun because of panic incited vomiting frustrated her mistress, but was the comfort she felt at that hers? She wants to curl up miserably and cry for her to simply break her, but she cannot. To do so would merely lead her to the flames her son felt. The flames she does not have to strength to face on her own and would not even if she did not so loathe to disappoint this woman. “I said stand, you pathetic thing. I know you can and I am offering you the chance to do so of your own volition as a kindness. Take it!” her master states harshly.

 

Drawing in a shuddering breath she steels herself to move. It is her right to do so and more than that she must, for if she fails there shall be another beating. The thought of being left alone battered, bleeding, without the slightest bit of aid unnerves her ever the more. Yet it gives her the strength she so needs, and fueled on by fear she pushes herself from the floor. Her legs feel of nothing and she stumbles, her master doing nothing to help her. It is her business to stand, her gift from that woman. She catches herself and she straightens herself, looking straight on towards her owner. To look elsewhere would earn naught but a harsh slap. Gazing at the Marquise's wide grin she says, “Thank you, Mistress,” her voice quiet and distant. She stood.

 

She stood and stands now with a crooked grin on her face. That had been something of a shock. She was not used to being forced so roughly, and in such a manner. Yet Porrim cannot write it off as wholly unpleasant. It was rather exhilarating, honestly, and so she laughs. What nerves she did have after being pulled to the floor as her mind was stolen from her leave and she is but ready for more. Porrim can only hope it eases Aranea as much as it did herself. The girl bites her lip, wearing a look of reflection. She is still so very hesitant and so Porrim nudges her on ever the more. “Well, well, quite the big bad pirate aren't you, Mindfang?” she says while she watches her lover for signs, “Not terribly elegant a stretch of your will though was it?”

 

Aranea scrunches her face up cutely at that, frowning at Porrim. Just the reaction that she had wanted. Adorable thing she is, Aranea just continues to please Porrim when she says, “It was just practice, Porrim. A simple test of how harshly I could press.” She is lightly frustrated and a lightly frustrated Aranea, while not an entirely happy one, was an Aranea who could act.

 

Still she would need more pushing. “Just practice? If I didn't know better I'd say you have no clue how to use your little cerulean gift,” Porrim teases, standing still in her place. She could so easily defy Aranea and rush her into acting, but where would the fun in that be? Lightly poking the beast was better than sharply stabbing it at times.

 

There comes a sight that makes Porrim quirk a brow, however. Aranea breaks out into a wide grin, one of those smiles that speak of her joy at how her ego has been stroked by a recent victory. Porrim thinks to ask her what she's just so pleased about, but decides against it. Odd seeing as she does love prodding at Aranea, still not altogether off. No, what is off is what Aranea says, looking as though she has won some test of skill, “Yes, practice. It was just something of a particularly rough nudge, Porrim. Nothing terribly difficult or impressive, but ultimately encouraging in a fashion. Though not as much as my second experiment has proven.”

 

Her voice comes to her again and once more she feels the familiar need to talk back, “Second experiment? I thought you were a pirate, not a mad scientist, Aranea.”

 

Aranea doesn't frown at Porrim nor scrunch her nose. She simply smiles on and continues. “No one ever said seagrifts weren't ones to test theories and the effectiveness of their techniques. As I was saying however, my second test was quite the success as it has shown me a taste of what I can manage with less overt pushes.” Porrim listens on, eyes widening a tad. If she was saying what she thought she was Aranea was far more talented that she had thought. So much so it was a somewhat frightening thought. Aranea goes on merely to confirm her suspicions and a slight chills runs through Porrim: “The last test didn't involve an outright order, nothing so crude. More a light suggestion, if you will. One to keep you standing right where you should be as opposed to running over here to ruin things. Given that you're still not moving and haven't moved since, I can but mark test two as a success.” She pauses in her rambling for a moment to look on at Porrim in silence. Perhaps she was checking to see just how pliant she was. There is no certainty to be had and that unnerves Porrim just a bit, pleasantly so. Apparently pleased with matters Aranea adds, “Especially since my third test replicated the results perfectly, albeit in a different form; it shut you up when normally you would be mocking me.”

 

Porrim looks on searching for some manner of truth in Aranea. She cannot hide the subtle movements, small changes in expression. Upon closer examination Porrim can rest easy knowing that Aranea is still slightly hesitant. For all her showboating she was still the same Aranea, adorable and precious.

 

So very precious and pliant to her will was that slave girl before her now. The girl with her odd hue was also delightfully uncertain. For all that she was, she could only be sure that she originally stood on her own volition. Her silence, her soft words, her bursts of emotion. None could she discern as truth or suggestion, which was just how Mindfang preferred matters. Her toys were most fun when they had fallen to her completely though yet not in a harsh, sudden fashion. A dead drone who walked on with dazed eyes was useless and needed to be discarded. This girl however was proving to be delightfully strong and durable. She may be shaking at all hours of the day, but she was still within the realm of reality and was so marvelously under Mindfang's thumb.

 

The slave looks on at her, eyes wide and full of questioning and fear. Just what is she wanted for, she wonders. The answer is simple to Mindfang yet painfully arcane to the slave. It is best that way. She prods a bit at her, giving to her just the barest suggestion of something properly sordid. It is but a slight hint that births full wondering on what manner of sensual acts she will be asked of this evening. So common were such demands these days and so light Mindfang's tampering that the slave doesn't question the thought. What she does question, however, is the slight bloom of arousal in her heart. That smallest of aches in her loins. Mindfang has nothing to do with it directly. The girl is just something of a strumpet deep down, craving such attentions as a sort of comfort. Such had Mindfang so cleverly exploited and she grins widely which alerts her toy to her knowing. For she cannot be sure if it is joy at so easily manipulating her or amusement at her own natural inclinations. “Is something the matter, dear?” Mindfang asks in a deceptively sweet tone.

 

The girl turns her eyes to the floor, examining the boards with a hope that her burgeoning lust will simply quit. It does not. Mindfang needs not even nudge it on, but still she feels an impish desire to press it along a bit further regardless. Let her wish, however briefly, that she could be permitted to please herself and leave. So often had Mindfang coaxed her into such before so quickly dismissing her. Though the girl ponders and worries, she does not know the truth and keeps to looking to the deck's floor. “I am quite fine, Mistress,” she says weakly.

 

“Are you now? You don't at all look it, darling. If I must say so you seem a tad uncomfortable,” Mindfang says as she strides behind her slave. She rests a hand on her shoulder as she nears her. Her other hand takes to toying with the girl's hair, long digits running through tangled curls of black.

 

What is the right answer the slave ponders. To say yes could lead to a beating for being so crude and pathetic. Yet silence or denial could be the wrong answer this night. She closes her eyes and tries to ignore the feel of Mindfang nuzzling her. That stupid, lovely girl was trying to press her away and that just wouldn't do. She takes the hand from her shoulder, sliding it down her arm lightly until she comes to the girl's elbow. Her hand is wholly removed before she rests it on her waist, fingers curling to grasp at her slowly, one at a time. Mindfang near sings with delight at the mounting conflict in the slave. So few things were as fun as watching her squirm about in vain. At last she takes to answering, “I am not entirely in a state of comfort, no, but that matters little.”

 

Mindfang's lips curl and she sneers with a disgust marked by pity. “It matters if I damn well say that it does. How long will it take you to learn this? I swear you're hopeless like all the rest,” she says while both raging and cheering at her toy's actions. Her slave was so frustratingly and charmingly pathetic.

 

Especially as she cringes with fear. She will taste the fires just yet, she feels and the thought drives her into anxiety yet not a panic. She knows far better than to crumble at her touch though. “I am sorry, Mistress,” she says lamely.

 

“Now tell me, what pray tell is the proper answer, girl?”

 

She draws in a sharp breath, one of deep shame and hate for herself. If only Mindfang could fill the girl with some pride she might be easier to bear. Oh, but she wouldn't be so cute then. Decisions, decisions...Mindfang thinks on the possibility of allowing her some degree of confidence when at last she says, “I am discomforted and this is of relevance.”

 

“How so? God, even when I threaten you you're still so frightfully vague. Useless is what you are,” Mindfang hisses as she comes to stand before the slave once more. It is a damned lie and she knows it, but her slave does not. Perhaps she never will. She does not need to know how treasured she is. Not just yet. What she does need to know is that Mindfang is fingering something in her coat pocket.

 

The girl's eyes turn to Mindfang's side in dread. What can her master be holding this evening? Mindfang does not even need to coax the next words from her: “It is quite crude of me to state, but I feel that my discomfort is from a base hunger of the flesh.”

 

Mindfang grins once more at that response. She cackles with glee and pulls forth a blindfold from her pocket. The slave's shoulders relax just a tad in relief even as Mindfang walks to her once more. “Now let's deal with that nasty little problem of yours shall we?” she says while drawing her arms around her to fasten the cloth over the girl's eyes. Her toy draws in a breath of expectation and fear as the blindfold is tightened. Mindfang steps back to admire her work, smiling with pride. Now to make that girl want nothing more than to please herself. A small hint of further need is pushed on her, just enough to nudge her along a tad more. That poor thing was simply too easy to work up.

 

So easy that Aranea frowns a bit as she peeks in at Porrim's thoughts. God, she wouldn't even have to press her along anymore. If anything she may need to push her back. Things were fine for the time, however. At least Porrim's bulge had yet to truly stir. She would know if it had done more than peek out of its sheath. Porrim was far too vocal for it to be something she could miss, and far too open about her desires in general. “Yes, well, this is quite the good situation indeed. Quite a bit we can do with this,” Aranea states as confidently as she can. Porrim is blindfolded and her hands bound, yet Aranea is not terribly certain what she wishes to do.

 

Her confidence is not enough however, as Porrim cracks a wry grin. “Still not sure what to do with me then?” she asks, teasing as she always does.

 

For that Aranea wishes briefly to throw her to her knees once more. That would be childish and only slightly amusing though. She had so much more that she could do. “Yes. Yes, I am sure now hush, please,” Aranea says while sneaking up to Porrim. Her back stiffens some and Aranea makes note that. Even without her sight Porrim was quite attentive to what went on about her. Perhaps it was the jade blood in her; they did live in caverns after all. Aranea looks in on Porrim once more and she inwardly grumbles at what she finds. The woman was questioning her still! Granted, Aranea was in the dark truthfully, but Porrim didn't need to know that. What she needs is a show of Aranea's obvious know how. Obviously. That in mind she reaches out to trail a finger across her cheek, till at last it comes to her lips. Porrim's fine still, a bit testy at the loss of her sight though. That was lovely to feel from her and so Aranea takes her hand from her face. She searches about instead on Porrim's chest, tracing those intriguing green patterns on her skin. Porrim is far too certain again and she ceases in her exploration to instead caress her ass softly.

 

“Having fun there, Ary?” Porrim asks cockily. Despite herself Aranea acts out, pushing Porrim with her free arm. The woman catches herself and says, “I'll take that as a yes, sweetie.”

 

“Of course you will. You presume I am always enjoying your antics,” Aranea says while collecting herself once more. As impish as Porrim is she must keep herself calm. Calm and in control. This is what they were here for after all. She needs to extend her will once more to reassure herself. A small twinge of need is slipped into Porrim's thoughts. Ary darling was being so very cute and oh, our bulge needs to be attended to... Porrim would never be the wiser. Just the way Aranea wants things. That small nudge proves a tad too successful, though, for soon Porrim goes from a small, growing passion to one that made her sigh with need. Still more her bulge, horrid and eager thing it so very often is, slides out from its shaft searching about. It wriggles about beneath Porrim's skirts for Aranea to plainly see. Her plans are coming undone piece by piece...

 

Oh, she is going to start giggling soon at this rate and Aranea could not bear for that to happen. To keep that wretched laughter from throwing her off her game Aranea brings a hand to rest on Porrim's bulge. She ignores how it so hungrily pushes up against her hand, begging to be allowed to cling to her. Instead she says, as mockingly as she can manage, “Already, Porrim? God, next you'll be pailing all over the floor before we even have time to do much of anything!”

 

Her tactic works for Porrim does not laugh. No, she instead feels a touch of guilt at being so easy to rile up. Just like she should. Aranea would not want for Porrim to be in pain and self torment, but dammit have some shame. The lack of it mucks up Aranea's clever schemes. Not that Aranea can say much about shame as her own bulge was peeking out. “Sorry about that, dear. The poor thing is just so hard to keep down,” Porrim says “Really it's quite the hassle when she pops out to visit random passerby or Kanny. Bulges have no taste these days, I swear.”

 

“Indeed they don't. Or at least yours doesn't, Porrim,” Aranea says while giving the writhing thing a teasing stroke. Porrim's breath hitches and Aranea knows that it takes all her will to resist pouncing upon her. Aranea strengthens that burning ache, planting a simple image of her rutting against Aranea shamelessly. Porrim bites her lip and seems ready to voice yet another snarky comment. One that Aranea silences, perhaps a bit too forcefully as Porrim notices something off in her behavior. Drat. Oh well, Aranea could recover. Her plan, hastily made as it was, involves removing her hand from Porrim's bulge. Fingers lightly raking up and past the enthusiastic tentacle till she comes to Porrim's stomach. A grin on her face, beaming at Porrim's discomfort, she announces her plan, “Now let's see you do something about that lack of shame you have. Do keep your dress on and your hands out from under it, if you will. Impatient as you are I don't feel you deserve something more satiating.”

 

A hand rushes down to her bulge, perhaps far more quickly than it should. Still at last she is being permitted to handle that ache in her groin even if her methods were limited. Hands bound, blinded, and with further restrictions still she can only just rub at the front of her skirts. Her owner is more than likely sneering at her in disgusted amusement. She cannot blame her for that, especially given how little control she has shown. How little she still shows, in fact, as she works at her bulge as best she can. So frustrating that she must rub through her skirts, yet she cannot but feel a touch of relief at that. Insignificant as it was, being allowed to stay clothed lessens the hate. Just a bit, even if it means her bulge cannot wrap about her hand, squirming frantically as she caresses it. As is she can but stroke at it to the best of her ability while it writhes about in search of freedom.

 

Still she is rushing, far too much. She needs some manner of pride still and so she slows her pace and lightens her touch. It aches to do so, however, and she frowns at that, desiring to return to what she had been doing previously. The urge to roll her hips into her hands crosses her mind and she wonders again if her owner is guiding her, through subtle hints and commands. She tries to bury the thought, focusing instead upon her lust. And how she hates herself for it.

 

The Marquise sighs and can be heard walking away from her side. Something scrapes across the wood and she is certain that her owner has taken to sitting. Her world is of darkness, however, and she can but imagine what sort of look is being sent her way. God, she hopes it is a favorable one. Her life depends on it, as does the happiness of her owner. “Really now, girl? I present you a chance to molest yourself and you just jump at it so willingly? It's quite funny to watch, honestly. In a tragic sort of way,” her master says while she strains to remain stock still. She cannot prove her right. That would be a disappointment, but does she truly care about that? Or has she been made to? She chases the nagging thought away and turns her mind to her rubbing. It's not nearly enough and she let's out a ragged pant of a breath, one of complaint. Her master does not stay silent to her misfortune, “Really you may as well just drop to your knees and start thrusting against the table leg. I know that you want to, pitiful little whore that you are.” She ignores those words as best she can and fights against her desire to increase in intensity her rubbing and against her need to thrust against her own hands. While wishing in vain that her mistress would attend to her as she does every so often. Those caresses were so very sweet and so passionate, gifts to her she was told. Try as she might she cannot resist them. A thought comes to her. The wonder and suspicion that perhaps her owner wished for her to struggle. Was she being made to hold back? Such has happened before and she cannot tell what the right answer is. Is her disobedience what the Marquise craves or her personal torment? A small whimper escapes her as she longs for more, but she simply does not know if she can give herself more. She never knows as her owner will not permit her to have certainty. For a brief moment she wishes for death and it comforts her. Her master would never allow that nor wish for her to want it. She was simply far too amusing while alive. Confidence back again she takes to rebellion, stroking her bulge with a greater fervor than before. Why she even rolls her hips into one such rub, savoring that feeling. It is not enough, but it is more.

 

“You really think I'd be so easy to deter, girl?” her owner states snidely. Her confidence begins to falter, but still she keeps at it. She must though she knows not why anymore. “Just because I won't permit your death does not mean I won't make you wish for it. Why deprive myself of another game?” the Marquise says cruelly. It breaks her and she falls to her knees. Nothing is certain nor can it ever be again. Still, she cannot stop pleasuring herself, the urge is too great. “God, just look at you. Fine, fine. Be the wretched creature you want to be,” her master declares as she stops in her stroking at last. No. She will be better than this. She must. Yet she cannot as the want to thrust against her master returns again. And that woman demands it, “Will you just crawl over here like the sick little thing you are so you can rub against my leg as you desire? God, you're as bad as a dog. Unfortunately you're cuter than one too. Alas...” She hates herself the more for it, but she crawls on her own volition, so she feels. Her hands grope about the floor until at last they touch against the leather of her master's boots. Fingers trail up until they come to curl desperately about her skirts. Grabbing at that garment she pulls herself up and forward, nearing her master. She juts her hips forward until at last her still contained bulge presses against her owner's leg. Filled with loathing the slave proceeds to thrust against her, savoring the pleasure.

 

“Pathetic,” she hisses, “Just absolutely pathetic.” While Porrim cannot see the look of dismay on Aranea's face she can certainly feel it. It's surely that cute little frown she gives whenever she has to admit to herself that once again Porrim was right about her. Sadly she cannot see that look, blindfolded as she is. Porrim can but imagine it as she rubs herself furiously against Aranea's leg. Really Porrim has reached a new low, surpassing even sleeping with Cronus. She was humping Aranea's leg like a woofbeast and she felt just a tad ashamed of herself for it.

 

“Really? You sure seem to like it, Ary,” Porrim remarks trying to dash away her self pity: and the wonder if Aranea has a hand in it. She tries to push it away even though she has never felt so pleased in her life. There is a sort of joy in the situation, shame and all. Because while she was not pleasing her directly, Porrim was simply around for Aranea's amusement. A toy, even. It was a liberating thought in a way.

 

“I'm amused at just how despicable this all is if anything,” Aranea says as she removes her hand from her lap. A shame. Porrim had liked grazing it with her own during her thrusting.

 

She laughs lightly though it falls into a shuddering moan at the end. There are so many easier ways to deal with this, but she was not allowed to seek those routes. Frustrating as it is she could not help but adore the moment. Aranea sighs with disgust which, mocked or not, brings a stab of shame to Porrim again. She really is showing herself to be rather pathetic, fun as this is. “Well I suppose it is rather despicable like you say, but...” Porrim draws off, taking in a breath that escapes her as a deep moan. Whatever she had to say before was lost to her as she wonders. Was Aranea shutting her up again?

 

“Really now at this point we may as well give you a little tag that states that I own you, Porrim,” Aranea says, her voice perking up considerably at the idea. Oh, that girl really was a deviant...It was charming and entrancing. She can't shake the thought of being Aranea's and hers alone either. It runs through her very being and she digs her nails into Aranea's dress as she continues to thrust against her. Porrim searches for words, words that will not come. There is but the vague idea of belonging to Aranea. She bites her lip at that thought. “Dammit, Porrim would you stop that. You're going to tear my dress,” Aranea complains. Porrim complies wordlessly, loosening her grip and she feels so very satisfied at that show of obedience. Aranea sighs once more and says, “I'm going to go and alchemize that tag I talked about after this. I mean look at you, you're just begging to be ordered about.”

 

Porrim gasps at those words. She tries to speak, but all she manages is an impassioned groan. Sighing again Aranea mutters to herself what is likely an insult. There really was something terribly debasing about this, but Porrim craves more nonetheless. Her shame is just an incentive really and she strains to find something, anything to say. All she pushes out is a throaty whine of, “Please.”

 

“Please what, Porrim? You're mouthy until you really need to be,” Aranea demands. She has no answer to give, no expansion on her desire. It is just a simple need to please. Aranea could add what she willed to it. Porrim didn't care what particularly so long as it was something. So long as it was an order. “Uggh. Fine, if you're going to be so difficult you can stop what you're doing right now and be useful for once.” She cannot stop though and continues on with her rutting, though she knows that it contrasts with her need to obey. She is far too into the moment to stop now. Willingly at least. She merely moans another vague plea and Aranea groans in frustration. A weighty intrusion of a thought hits her and Porrim finally ceases in her perversion, yet it makes her bulge writhe ever the more. “Thank you. Now as I was saying, make yourself useful and do handle my own bulge. At least I can get off during this parade of debauchery.”

 

She takes to her task eagerly, far more eagerly than she would elsewise. Her hands fly to the buttons of Aranea's skirt and she rushes to undo the garment as best she can. A part of her protests this loss of will, but she can't stop. Not now when she has pulled apart those dresses and undergarments to reveal Aranea's bulge wriggling about in agitation. Though she cannot see it she can feel it as it brushes against her face. A blue fluid stains her panties. So Porrim can tell by touch and she sets them aside. Her task and purpose is ahead and, while a part of her still longs for total freedom, she quiets that complaint, taking Aranea's bulge in her mouth.

 

Well that was quite the surprise. She had left her slave with the choice on how to proceed next. The occasional surprise was worth the risk of disappointment. Well worth it in this case as she had never before seen the girl so eager to pleasure her. Nor had she known her to put such effort into the affair. She was not hesitating, no she was trying her damnedest to please Mindfang at last. And what was more she did so without force. Mindfang leans back into her seat, turning the girl’s desire over and over again in her mind. No matter which way she looks at it the girl was finally submitting in full. A smile comes to her, her past rage is forgot, and she lets out a loud hiss of a breath. That girl could work a bulge when she wanted to. She rests a hand in her slave's hair, fingers curling about the locks of her hair. A light tug is given, pressing her further into her work. The slave responds with a muffled moan which Mindfang can't help but laugh at.

 

She is just so hopelessly pathetic and the more did Mindfang love her for it. How could she not cherish such a silly girl? Anyone who said they could was a damned liar, or at the least they had awful tastes. Her pitiful slave needed to be adored and hidden from the world. She needed nothing more than Mindfang's attentions and she was more than willing to give them. Especially when the blade of her tongue runs across her bulge as it tries desperately to taste about all the girl's mouth. Mindfang lets out a deep moan of satisfaction, one entirely uninhibited as her bulge wraps about the girl's tongue for a time. That pressure doesn't daunt the girl and she brushes against it with greater gusto.

 

Even in her ecstasy Mindfang pries through the girl's mind. There is nothing save adoration for her and a desire to please. If only for this moment she has realized her place. She exists alone for Mindfang and she can desire Mindfang alone. It's so sickening to see someone so spineless at last, but it's also intoxicating. So much so that Mindfang begins to thrust her hips, fucking that girl’s face. The poor thing squeaks at that, but the sound is muffled by Mindfang's bulge. Still she thrusts harder against her, seeking release. The slave seeks it too, seemingly living for nothing more. Just as she should and Mindfang moans loudly and without care, panting roughly as she nears her edge.

 

She pulls herself from her arousal briefly, only so briefly, to squash the slave's efforts to please herself. Disgusting to know she was so enthused as to be aroused further and so the girl's hands are forced into inaction. It almost pains her toy for she brims with an ache for release. Still she does not cease for a moment in attending to Mindfang. Far too great is her need to please her. Not merely a desire or a necessity born of self preservation, but a strong absolute need driven by affection, devotion. That loyalty, its feel and presence, is entirely too much and Mindfang is pushed over at last. Moaning loudly, without care, she savors the orgasm for it is far more delightful than any she has had prior. At the very least it feels it for the moment and that is all that matters. There will be a journal entry about this and it will even include a note of amusement regarding her slave's discomfort fluctuating with joy at having to taste and swallow genetic fluid. Slut of a girl as she is she has her own limits. Yet they are never so much limits as they are interests she feels the worse for. Mindfang smiles in satisfaction as the girl pulls away from her bulge. Her self loathing is so very appealing to examine and as the world slowly returns she simply watches it, adoring the pitiful thing before her. Why she still burns for pleasure of her own yet fights it back, hateful and fear filled. It's delightful.

 

So very delightful though Aranea can't keep from cringing at Porrim. Was all her mind so very lacking in chasteness? The answer is so very clearly yes as Porrim sits there thinking to herself in conflict; should she simply touch herself and get this over with or wait for whatever Aranea had in mind? Decisions, decisions and ones that make Aranea sigh as she reads through them. Still she is swayed to kindness; a reward for putting up with this nonsense is due. Porrim, dreadful yet lovely pervert she is, deserves as much if not more. Definitely more and so Aranea does the one thing that she can. She combines the two ideas.

 

Prodding at her lightly she brings Porrim to rest her cheek against her knee. Desiring to speak but silenced by a suggestion from Aranea she takes instead to playing with the cuffs upon her wrists idly. With silence Aranea can begin her final cunning plan, “I must admit that was quite enjoyable, but honestly it just goes to prove how very obscene you are.” The teasing stabs at Porrim some and Aranea hesitates briefly before she comes across the small rush of pleasure born from it. Still wary she searches once more for trust, finding it warm and firm as always. More so even. Had she really come to trust Aranea the more for all this? Odd, but pleasing and enough so that it spurs Aranea to action once more. “Look at you now. You appear to have taken an absurd amount of joy in attending to me.”

 

“It's hard not to when you make such lovely sounds, darling,” Porrim says and only because Aranea permits her to. That statement is but a half truth from what Aranea reads. Strange and utterly perplexing is her enjoyment in this affair. Had she just merely missed this desire of Porrim's previously? Or was this a realization of a new one? Really, she should have noticed earlier either way and that thought annoys her some. Porrim's nuzzling of her thigh does little to pull her back from her thoughts. If anything it troubles her all the more for there had so clearly been something and she had ignored it until now. This just would not do for a Sylph of Light and it takes Porrim speaking again to pull her from her reverie at last. “Really you do have such a beautiful voice, Aranea. Even when you're not moaning my name!”

 

“Would you stop that. We are still very much in the scenario, Porrim” Aranea says frowning more at herself than Porrim's teasing. Delaying if further will only prove her the worse and so at last she says, “As such let us continue shall we?” Tugging on Porrim's hair sharply, but light enough to avoid true discomfort she continues, “I was quite amused at your impersonation of a dog earlier, so I will allow you the freedom to continue with that.”

 

A smirk comes to Porrim and her bulge aches ever the more from what can be read. There's something so lovingly horrible about how much she longs to degrade herself. Not enough to silence her though, “Oh? I recall you being disgusted by it.”

 

Huffing in frustration she pulls at Porrim's hair once more. “Quite disgusted, but that is where the amusement derives. It's just so fun to watch you fall to such lows, Porrim,” she says as she watches her matesprit closely. Her breath hitches at those words and a thought runs by her of self doubt. It carries with it true unease and so Aranea eases it away, a subtle prodding of assurance in Aranea sent to her mind.

 

Shoulders easing up Porrim calms without noticing in any form the intrusion. “So you'd like another little show of how much of a whore Porrim Maryam really is?” A rise comes in her at the word whore, a bizarre mix of loathing and delight. It's far stronger than was typical to her.

 

That in mind Aranea proclaims firmly,” Yes. Yes I do. Now will you follow through with this order or must I make you?”

 

Porrim needs no further command and she chuckles lightly as she presses herself the closer to Aranea. A deep satisfaction fills her, throwing Aranea somewhat off her guard. Porrim is so often a gentle flow of an individual, yet now she brims with a delight not even Meenah can manage. Yet still she aches for more, burning with a frustration that merely mounts ever further as she rubs against Aranea. She tries to keep quiet, out of some confused thought. Was it to annoy Aranea or please her? Or maybe a sort of preservation of dignity? Porrim's thoughts are muddled on this fact, conflicting and mixing together bringing confusion even to Aranea. Aranea who now lost simply tells her to cry out as she wants to. Not a suggestion or demand, just a simple mental statement to her. One to which Porrim takes eagerly, letting out a deep moan of pleasure. Now no longer silenced she makes no effort to control her voice. There is merely heavy panting and impassioned moans, some sounding near pained. Her mind too is simply a mess. Through her runs a rush of thoughts, many repeating again and again. Bursts of emotion fill her as well, far more than Aranea is accustomed to with anyone, let alone Porrim. It overwhelms her and she becomes as like Porrim, stuck in a repetition of a fractured sentence and the feeling behind it. One that hopes to speak of a need for her, but is unable to properly word this desire. Aranea digs her fingers into Porrim's hair as she continues to read, ever the more exhilarated. Were her bulge not so stubborn, surely she would be aroused yet again. Alas it hides even as Porrim comes to orgasm.

 

She had in the past focused on her lover's orgasms. They were interesting to watch, a sort of death of thought accompanied by a burst of euphoric bliss. It was a sort of mental white noise and one Aranea could always calmly examine. It seems though that she had found a particular liking of Porrim's and she is truly lost in a wave of emotional feedback as a result. She can but say, “Oh...” as Porrim quiets down and the world becomes a confused haze. There is something on her leg, or what she presumes to be her leg, but she is far too lost at the time to be certain. Porrim does not notice, she can't. Her mind merely evens out, slowly settling to a deep contentment to which Aranea clings desperately. It is simple and calm and merely Porrim, comforting river of thought that she is. Yet it is far more Porrim than she was used to, a greater calm than she could recall having read in the past. That is not so much troubling as it is reassuring however. This had been good. Good for the both of them. She closes her eyes, burying herself the deeper in that feeling. The genetic fluid on her leg is becoming more noticeable by the second but she pushes the annoyance with that back, taking instead to running her fingers through Porrim's hair. Porrim who sighs contentedly and nuzzles Aranea's thigh.

 

“I truly do adore you.”

 

Such are the words that echo out across time, sending a shiver down the spines of those two who hear them.


End file.
